


The Hall of Mirrors

by ignipes



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-09
Updated: 2006-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-02 21:28:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Hogwarts' least popular headmaster, the castle's most mysterious ghost, and an unlikely friendship that begins with a murder and never ends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hall of Mirrors

They walk together in the Hall of Mirrors. He slips from frame to frame, vivid brushstrokes behind smooth glass, and she floats beside him, silver and translucent.

"There is some talk," he says, his voice echoing in the long stone hall, "of closing the school. They may not allow the students to return until this -- this _difficulty_ has passed."

She glances at him, barely turning her head. Moonlight shines through the narrow, stained-glass windows high above their heads, creating a mosaic of faded colour on the stone walls.

"It will be very quiet," she says. It has been a long time since she has paid any attention to the students who fill the castle with noise and warmth, but she believes she might miss them, if it occurs to her. "They will return," she adds after a moment.

"Yes, of course." But he is distracted, frowning slightly.

"The school has survived far worse." There is blood in the dungeons; there are bones in the walls. When she wanders the empty corridors at night, she imagines that she can hear the echoes of battles long ago lost. She no longer wonders if the living can hear them, as well.

He sighs melodramatically. "Yes, I know. I suppose they will not muck up too terribly."

She lowers her face to hide a small smile. "It is not your concern. You are not the headmaster anymore."

He scoffs. "A great pity. If I were, I would not be so foolish as to be murdered by one of my own staff."

"Dare I remind you that you were, in fact, murdered by one of your own staff?"

He waves a hand airily. "That was a different time, a crueller era. In those days the high table rarely held a goblet of wine on that did not contain a drop of poison. Daggers were poised between the shoulder blades everywhere one looked, and not a day went by without thinly-veiled threats bandied about the staff room."

He reaches up reflexively but stops just short of touching his neck. She has never asked if he can feel the memory of the potion that scorched his throat, just as she can feel the memory of the green flash and cold stone floor.

She says, "Why, Phineas, if I didn't know better, I might believe that you are suffering from nostalgia."

He laughs. "I do occasionally long for a game of cat-and-mouse with sly Professor Snythe. He never stirs from his frame now, the lazy fool." His expression grows serious again, and he says, "There is no excuse for such carelessness in this modern age."

They reach the end of the hall, and when they turn she sees her own pale reflection cast over his vibrant features, caught in the mirrors on the other side and thrown back, endlessly repeating, reaching into shadow.

Phineas says, quietly, "I suppose I overestimated his cleverness."

Reflections of reflections, echoes of echoes. She looks away, gazes straight ahead, and says nothing.

-

She died on a cold, clear, midwinter night. Moonlight shone through the narrow windows high above the floor, a pale glow the colour of ice. The brilliant green of the curse filled all of the mirrors, a blinding flash of light, then instantly faded. There was no sound except for the faint scrape of shoes on stone, the creak of a closing door, and when she opened her eyes, she was dead.

She rose and looked down at her crumpled body. Her legs were splayed awkwardly, arms cast out, robes fanned about her, as though she had fallen from a great height. Her face was slack, her mouth open in a twist of surprise.

She backed away, frowning distastefully.

And she waited.

The moon set; the sun rose. Light and shadow, colour and darkness danced through the hall. Nobody ventured into this part of the castle anymore, not even the ghosts and house-elves. It occurred to her that she ought to tell somebody about her death, but it seemed disrespectful to leave the body all alone in that empty, echoing hall.

Two days passed before they found her. Sir Nicholas floated through the wall above the mirrors and spotted the corpse immediately.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, his surprise so great his nearly-severed head wobbled on his neck as he swept down and hovered beside her body. "Oh, oh, my dear lady, there you are."

"You had best tell them," she said.

Sir Nicholas spun around. "Professor! But who--"

"Before the stench is too great," she added.

He looked at her steadily. "Yes," he said, after a long moment. "Yes, of course."

She said nothing more before turning and floating out of the hall. It was a strange sensation, passing through the thick walls. She wanted to feel the stone grating roughly against her skin, but she felt only a whisper of a touch.

-

It was cold midwinter again, two years later, when she followed him through the hidden passages in the castle, down the corridors and staircases into the Slytherin dungeon. The snow from his boots left a trail of damp footprints on the stones. It was easy to follow, easy to stay hidden as a ghost, lurking just beneath the surface of the stone, sinking into the ceiling or floor when he glanced around.

He hurried through the dark common room and into the seventh year boys' dormitory. She watched as he removed his winter cloak and boots. His roommates were sleeping soundly, dark lumps in the faint light of the dying fire. He stood and studied himself in the tall mirror beside the fireplace, running long fingers through his dark hair. Fine bones, grey eyes, tall stature: he was handsome, like all of his family, but his mouth was twisted into a displeased frown. It seemed that his meeting in the village had not gone as planned.

She floated behind him.

He went still. Their eyes met in the mirror, over his shoulder.

It was to his credit, she thought, that he did not startle or cry out. He lowered his hand to his side and swallowed visibly.

"Hello, Professor," he said. "I had--" He paused, then turned so that he was facing her. "I had heard rumours that you were still about, but I doubted the veracity of the gossip. Until now."

Amused, she floated over to the fireplace and reached out toward the onyx carving of a snake set into the mantle. Her fingers passed through the stone, and she felt no warmth from the flames, only the gentlest suggestion of a breeze.

"Because you have not yet been arrested?" she asked, glancing at him.

He titled his head to one side, then said simply, "Yes."

"It is a dangerous game you are playing."

"I know."

"I hope you were suitably rewarded."

He did not look away when he said, "I was."

She moved away from the fire, floating between the beds, looking down at his sleeping classmates. He remained in front of the mirror. He was tense, his grey eyes watching her warily.

"It is a terrible thing about being dead," she said, returning swiftly to his side. She brushed her fingers through his arm; he flinched almost imperceptibly but did not step away. "It is terrible to know that people forget."

Then she left, passing through the wall without looking back.

-

After the feast was over, after the students had been herded into their dormitories, after the castle had settled into sleep, she went to the headmaster's office for the first time since her death.

She entered through the wall behind him; he did not see her. He was sitting at the desk, reading a long scroll and muttering to himself, his fingers stained with ink and his robes in a state of careless disarray he would never allow any of the students or staff to see. A cup of tea, no longer steaming, sat forgotten by his elbow. The office was quiet except for the snoring of the portraits around him and the gentle scratching of his quill.

"Good evening," she said.

He started, spattering ink on the parchment, and twisted around. Frowning, he demanded, "What are you doing here?"

"I have only come to congratulate you," she said. She floated down and settled into the plush, high-backed chair across from him. "Was your first day a success, headmaster?"

"There were no violent deaths and no unexpected fires," he replied crisply, looking down at the parchment again. "Quite a success, don't you think?"

"Certainly. You will go down in history as the leader of Hogwarts' most peaceable time."

He did not look up, but she could see that he was smiling. "That," he said, dipping his quill into the inkpot, "is highly unlikely."

"Indeed it is," she admitted. "There are wagers that you will not survive the term."

He did look up then, regarding her suspiciously. "Is that a warning?"

She shrugged. "Idle gossip, nothing more."

"Idle gossip does not become a lady of your distinction."

She laughed. "Oh, I believe I am entitled, being the subject of so much gossip myself. Have you overheard what the older students are telling the young ones about me?"

"I do not listen to the idle gossip of students any more than that of ghosts." For a moment, in the flickering play of candlelight, he resembled his younger self, the diligent student she remembered from decades ago.

"Perhaps you should. It is quite ridiculous and rather more flattering than I deserve. It seems I slew myself over the infidelity of a dashing lover. There was a cursed blade and a bed of thorny roses and a great deal of blood. Very tragic." She paused. His hand stilled, but he did not look up. "They call me the Grey Lady," she said. "It is fascinating, don't you think? The stories they invent to replace what they have forgot, and what they never knew."

He began to write again and said nothing.

She sighed -- a silly affectation for a ghost, but one she could not resist -- and rose from the chair. "I will leave you to your work, headmaster."

Just before she passed through the wall, he spoke: "I haven't forgot."

She glanced back. He was still writing, bent over the parchment, face hidden.

"I do hope not," she said, smiling. "That would be terribly discourteous of you."

-

She did not let him win the last game of chess he played as a living man. She never let him win, despite her mother's warning, long ago, that men wanted nothing to do with clever women. They were usually a good match at the chess board, her intellect against his trickery, but on the night he died she won easily.

"Checkmate," she said. "Shameful, Phineas. That wasn't a challenge at all.

The black king collapsed on the board with a dramatic groan. The rest of the pieces snickered; the white queen preened.

"I do apologise," he said, his tone uncharacteristically sincere. "My thoughts are scattered this evening. I've had an owl from the Minister, the impertinent fool. Do you know what he was demanding? His efforts at subterfuge are clumsy at best, but he does vex me. I do not understand how he hopes to gain allies in this ridiculous plot..."

She stopped listening. He paced in front of the fireplace. His robes snagged on the rough stones of the hearth, but he did not notice. He was drinking wine from a silver goblet; she watched him swallow, again and again, waving the goblet about for emphasis then sipping again. The wine stained his lips, and his knuckles were white, clenched around the stem.

"It is terrible," she agreed absently.

He opened his mouth to respond, but no sound emerged. Eyes wide, mouth open, he took one staggering step, set the goblet down on the mantle, then brought both hands to his throat. He looked at her, then he collapsed. His head struck the stone hearth as he fell. There were two strangled breaths, quick and forced, and he was silent.

She watched him for several moments.

Rising from the chair, she said to the empty room, "I will inform the staff that the headmaster has passed away."

But she did not leave immediately.

She waited, she did not know how long, but no silver form rose from the corpse.

-

A spring storm raged outside the castle, and the seventh floor corridor was dark and empty. It was her favourite time of the night, after all the students were abed and all the candles snuffed, and she wandered the castle aimlessly. Somebody had left a window unlatched at the end of the corridor, and rain lashed in, forming a large puddle on the floor. She floated over it, looking down past her silvery robes, her bare silver feet and thin silver hands. When the lightening flashed, she saw her own reflection in the water, blurred and quivering as thunder shook the stones.

She turned and floated through the seventh floor corridor again, trying to remember the feel of cold spring rain on her face.

"Would you care for a game of chess, Professor?"

She stopped and turned.

"That is Lord Higby's library," she said disapprovingly. "He does not take kindly to trespassers in his portrait."

He waved a hand carelessly and settled into Lord Higby's comfortable chair, stretching his legs toward the fire that crackled in the background of the painting. "Lord Higby is being entertained by Mrs. Dentworth in the hospital wing. He has, it seems, a fondness for healers." He was younger than he had been when he died, his hair black without the streaks of grey, his face unlined. He ran his forefinger along his chin and beard, a familiar gesture, and motioned toward the chessboard. "It is a shame to see such fine pieces mishandled by that imbecile. They deserve better."

She moved closer to the frame. The chess pieces in Lord Higby's portrait library were fancifully painted as armies of emerald and ruby on a board of etched marble, an extravagance far beyond what Higby had been able to afford in life.

"I am afraid I cannot offer you a chair," he went on.

She looked up from the chessboard, puzzled. There was a hint of feeling in his voice that she did not recognise. But he looked as he always had, carelessly elegant and affecting boredom as he toyed with one of the ruby pawns.

Smiling, she said, "I very much doubt death has improved your game. I claim the red."

He returned the smile. "Of course, my lady. It is your move."

-

It is some time before he speaks again.

"I do wonder," he begins, pausing in the frame of a small, round mirror, "if perhaps it would have been different..." His voice trails off.

She nods absently, glancing toward the high windows as a cloud passes over the moon. Sometimes, when she sits quietly for days and focuses her mind, she can remember the names of her mother and father, her young sisters, the handsome man in London she had once thought she would marry, the students she taught and scholars she knew. She never keeps the names; they melt from her mind like frost in the dawn.

"They are not all gone," he says finally, and he begins walking again, passing behind the gilded frame and into the next mirror.

He is different. He has always kept all of them, every branch of that ancient and noble family, every name and history.

"No," she says, and she means it to sound reassuring. "They are not all gone."

He smiles wryly. "Perhaps there is hope for the fools after all."

She laughs, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "Perhaps."

They walk together in the Hall of Mirrors, and the castle is silent around them.


End file.
